Chapter 35
“Anam keeps the names of all souls from their first breath to their last.
They belong to Him, and He always comes to collect.”
- The Old Book
Oliver’s name spread like a sickness across the dining hall. By the time it reached me, I already felt ill.
“Who died?”
“Oliver.”
“That boy from Oak Hollow?”
“Yeah, they found his body this morning.”
“What happened?”
“Suicide. That’s what I overheard a Veiler say.”
“Or that’s what they want you to think.”
“Maybe, I just know they found him this morning.”
“I heard the truth sessions were hard on him.”
“He was a sweet kid. Wrong person from Oak Hollow to go if you ask me.”
I felt the eyes shift onto me, but I refused to meet them. Gripping the sides of my tray hard, my knuckles whitened briefly before I released the pressure. There were too many spectators, and I refused to give them a show. I needed to leave. Now.
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor through the low hum of whispers. Every eye in the dining hall felt like it was burning holes in my skin. They wanted to see me falter, see me break. But I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
I stormed out, the tray still clutched in my hands, until I found the nearest bin and slammed it inside. The clang echoed in the corridor.
The air felt too thin. Too bright. Too loud. I could barely breathe it; it was choking me.
I didn’t hear Rowan’s footsteps until he spoke.
“Mavis—” he said as if approaching a wounded animal.
“Don’t,” I snapped, whirling on him like a struck match. “Don’t follow me. Don’t say my name like you understand. Just—” My voice cracked, but I didn’t let it stop me. “Give me space!”
I stormed off, but Rowan, of course, followed suit and blocked my path.
“You need the exact opposite.”
“Gods,” I cursed. “I hate it when people tell me what I need.” I tried to push past him, but he moved with me, unshaken.
“You’re boiling over,” he said evenly. “Nothing gets better by running off to sit in silence and stew.”
I spun on him again, fists clenched at my sides. “You think you know what’s best for me? You know nothing about me!”
He stared at me for a long, unreadable moment. “Then show me.”
“What?” I paused.
“Fight it out,” he said simply. “Let the anger burn through you.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “You don’t want that. It’s not safe to spar right now.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and a flicker of challenge danced across his face. “Challenge accepted.”
By the time we reached the old gym, I was already rolling my sleeves up past my elbows. I didn’t bother asking for wraps. I didn’t want protection.
Rowan stepped onto the mat without a word. The growl of the boiler next door made the floor vibrate faintly beneath my feet. Sweat already clung to the back of my neck, but this time it wasn’t just from the heat.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice low but steady.
“No,” I said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
I swung at him before he could open his mouth again.
He ducked. Of course, he did.
I came at him again, harder this time—fist, elbow, knee. He deflected all of it as if I were swatting flies. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. Rage and grief pumped through my limbs like fire, and I let it blaze.
Rowan blocked my fist, redirected my kick, twisted out of reach like smoke in the air.
“Don’t pity me,” I growled.
“I’m not.”
“Then stand still and let me hit you!”
“I’m not going to let you do anything,” he said. “Earn it.”
I screamed—no words, just sound—and lunged again.
This time, I went right and swept low. He moved to counter, but I shifted faster, fueled by nothing but fury and spit. My fist collided with his ribs, hard. I heard the grunt before I even registered the contact.
Rowan stumbled back half a step, one hand pressing briefly to his side.
My breathing heaved in the thick air, and I stared at him, stunned.
He looked up at me, eyes sharp but not angry. “You’re getting stronger.”
“Why?” I asked quietly, the question falling from my lips before I could stop it. “Why are you doing this? Why help me?”
Rowan straightened slowly. The usual wall behind his eyes seemed thinner now, like something in him had shifted.
“There was someone,” he said, voice rougher than before. “A long time ago.”
He didn’t look at me when he spoke. He looked at the cracked floor like it held a memory.
“Someone who needed help. I failed, and they lost their life.”
He paused. Swallowed.
“And now I see them sometimes. In dreams. In reflections. In the faces of people.” His jaw clenched. “It doesn’t go away. That guilt.”
I said nothing. My throat was too tight to allow it. His pain was one I knew all too well. That kind of gnawing grief that’s never sated.
“So now I’m helping you,” Rowan continued, softer. “It doesn’t undo what happened. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. But this—” he gestured to me. “Training you, keeping you alive… It’s something.”
I stared at him, chest aching. There was something unspoken beneath his words. Something jagged and heavy and buried so deep it had probably never seen the light.
The silence between us pulsed.
My knuckles were bruised, my ribs ached, and my throat felt like it might close—but some tiny sliver of me felt… steadier.
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay?” he echoed.
I squared my stance again. “Let’s go another round.”
Rowan’s mouth twitched, and he raised his fists.
He nodded, “Again.”